


i made the blade that cut me down

by ashglory



Category: Fallen Hero Series - Malin Rydén
Genre: Character Study, Introspection, Other, POV Second Person, Scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-22 18:39:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17667980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ashglory/pseuds/ashglory
Summary: There is a subtle distinction between wound ‘repair’ and ‘regeneration’. Repair means incomplete regeneration.The aftermath of the auction.The aftermath of the scar.





	i made the blade that cut me down

**i.**

There isn’t any makeup that can disguise this, you think, staring into the mirror. Not that you really have any in your possession, and not unless you’re willing to spend the better part of an hour trying to cover everything and make it look even. It’s luxury and time you don’t have, not with the kind of life you live.

So. The scar stays.

You trace the red stripe down your forehead, fingertips lingering where it just barely misses the corner of your eye. It’s just another scar, you try to think. Just another on top of the dozens, the hundreds, already littering your body. This one is a bit more visible but in the end it’s nothing special.

It’s a testament to your self-control, you think, that the bitter laugh curdling in the back of your throat doesn’t see the light of day. Nothing special. Hah.

You’ve fucked up, badly. Argent knows. You _let_ Argent know. It was a stupid decision and not one you can blame on adrenaline, or one you can say was part of a carefully calculated plan. You let Argent know and you don’t know why, and that’s something you can’t let stand. In your line of work, not knowing things gets you killed, whether it’s LDPD response times, exactly how much pressure is needed to break an arm, or your own thoughts.

The reflection in the mirror looks angry, but maybe that’s only because of the scar. You cover the half of your face with a hand and squint again, wondering if it makes a difference.

Your vision starts to blur after a while, and you give up when your reflection remains unwilling to give you any clear answers. One last prod at the red mark–a twinge of pain, though nowhere near searing, which, fine, you can live with that–and you leave well enough alone. You have work to do.

**ii.**

Predictably, Ortega freaks out. So does Herald. You think Chen might be having one too, but he was off to the side when you entered and it’s kind of hard to turn to look when Ortega has grabbed your face in both his hands.

Argent remains standing by the doorway, watching in silence with her arms crossed.

“What the hell happened?” Ortega demands, holding you in place as he stares at the scar.

“Someone tried to mug me,” you say blandly. A common enough occurrence that no one will ever look too deeply into it. “I’m fine, Ortega. I know how to clean up a wound, it’s not infected or anything.”

You set your jaw in a scowl that he’ll be able to feel through his palms and he seems to get the picture, releasing you with a murmured apology. It seems half-hearted at best, though, and the crease between his eyebrows hasn’t disappeared. You recognize the worried-upset look from your Sidestep days. There’s probably a lecture incoming, and you aren’t particularly in the mood for one, so you turn a bit to the side and toss a nod towards Herald.

“I should probably thank you, Herald,” you say, distracting everyone and causing golden boy’s face to burn bright red from the sudden attention. “All that training’s helped keep me sharp too. It came in handy then.”

“Training? What training?” Chen asks, zeroing in just about where you expected he would. Good to know that some people remain as predictable as always. 

As Herald begins to stammer out something, Argent speaks up for the first time.

“Doesn’t seem like you’ve been very sharp, to end up with that,” she drawls. Her voice is low, tone almost mocking. Ortega looks ready to let loose a scolding, but you hold up your hand.

“I was surprised,” you say, and you realize that it’s the truth. Surprised at… at what? That she hadn’t killed you? No, you had been pretty sure she wouldn’t, at the time. Surprised at her mercy? But this isn’t mercy; this is a complication, a punishment, collateral.

Surprised at… the fact that you don’t mind the mark as much as you thought you would?

You quash down on that thought when no denial immediately presents itself. Instead, you just continue on, as if you hadn’t just had a miniature crisis in the lobby of the Rangers’ HQ, “It won’t happen again.”

“Hmm,” says Argent. Her gaze never leaves yours.

**iii.**

For a time, it seems as though your scar is all anyone ever wants to talk about. At first it’s fine, because it means less attention paid to everything else about you. Then, it becomes annoying.

You cross your arms without really thinking about how defensive it makes you look. “I’m really not up for having this exact same conversation for the third day in a row,” you say.

“And which conversation is that?” Dr. Finch asks, as though she doesn’t have a damn good guess. 

You don’t like how she turns every sentence out of your mouth into an admission. Every word is dragged out, and you hadn’t realized how exhausting just talking could be until Ortega wheedled you into these appointments. It’s her job, you suppose, but that doesn’t mean you have to like it.

“The scar. The mugging. Whatever. It bothers me, sure. But I’m fine now. End of the story.”

You track Dr. Finch’s eyes as they flicker towards the healing remnant on your face. “Of the two, which bothers you more?”

You blink. It pulls at the healing edges of skin. She must see something like confusion in your expression, because she continues, “Being mugged, or the fact that you were left with something from it? Is it the scar itself that bothers you, or the events that led to it?”

The events that led to it, huh? In the tunnel with Argent. Close enough to look her in the eye, to feel the heat of her skin. To feel her breath mixing with yours.

Confession.

Impasse.

Trust.

You only realize you are frowning deeply when the sight of Dr. Finch adjusting her posture in your periphery breaks you out of the memory. Is she waiting for an answer? She’ll be waiting a while, then; you don’t even have an answer for yourself yet.

“Just something to think about,” she says softly, when the silence has lingered for a touch too long.

**iv.**

You’re two months into restoration, and you’re so close that some nights it’s all you dream about. Being whole. Being free. 

If you’re being honest with yourself, those dreams are often indistinguishable from your nightmares. A life without the threat of a hand yanking on your leash. A life that is yours to live, yours to fuck up, wholly and entirely yours.

Is there anything more terrifying?

But life marches on, and it doesn’t care whether the tremors that sleep and dream leave behind are due to fear or longing or both. Making your body into something that doesn’t leave you nauseous to think about is only half of what you want. And the path to the other half is one that leaves you clashing often with the Rangers.

With her.

Today is no different. The harsh Los Diablos sun is currently the only observer to your circling dance with Lady Argent. Herald’s balance issues had improved, somewhat, but the fact that you know exactly what he’s doing to try and mitigate them hasn’t helped him any. Ortega’s probably still busy trying to fish him out of the pair of vehicles and a building you’ve thrown him into. Chen is hopefully still dealing with the surprise you left for him a few streets back.

So it’s just you and Argent, for now. Sweat runs down the back of your neck as you watch her carefully. She’s smiling. As of late, she’s always been smiling in your little duels.

As of late, so have you.

It’s not something you can take the time to think through, though. Not right now. Not when the Rat King is saying move, move,  _move-_

Argent’s hand slams into the lamppost by your head. The metal shrieks and crumples as you spin to the side, avoiding the follow-up kick.

There’s no space left in your mind for introspection when facing Argent. She commands attention, has staked a claim on a section of your focus and your thoughts-

-she has, hasn’t she?

Again, you’re growing distracted. With a growl, you push past the epiphany. Even though you know you’ll have to dissect this later, you can’t afford to be sloppy now. Though you both have settled into an equilibrium, a mutual understanding of the current state of affairs, Argent doesn’t believe in pulling punches.

Neither do you.

You lash out with your right elbow, but it barely grazes her side. That’s fine- the nanovores are already making short work of the ground beneath her feet. She barely spares them a glance as she leaps towards you, winding her arm back for another punch that could break your face in half.

Another near miss, another gleam in her eye that tells you she’s still playing.

“Is it ready?” she asks, when she leans in close to try and grab onto your arm. You step away quickly enough, bringing up your forearm to bat away her attempted grapple. 

Give and take. Lead and follow. It’s your turn in this dance, and you lunge towards her swinging one hand out like you want to cut her in half. She grins as she jumps so high that for a brief, disorienting moment, you think she’s flying. When she lands again, cracks spiderweb out in the asphalt from the impact of her feet.

“Almost,” you say, the first time you’ve put into words how close you are, no matter how vague. “It’s- almost there.”

Her expression sharpens at that. “When?”

“Not more than a few weeks. Two. Two weeks.”

You block the kick aimed at your face but she reacts faster than you or the Rat King expect, using the momentum to whirl around and shove you into a brick wall. You can’t dodge this one in time, and the back of your head ends up slamming against the wall hard enough that you’re already considering giving Dr. Mortum a bonus for the additional padding she’d thought to include.

When your vision refocuses, you’re in a scene you’ve played before. Her hand around your throat. The press of her fingers will leave bruises come tomorrow morning, but right now you don’t care. Don’t struggle. Hardly even dare to breathe.

Because right now your hummingbird pulse is racing traitorously quick, not only because of the exertion. Argent’s eyes–inhuman and fathomless like the night sky, like the abyss–are so close that you can see your mask reflected in her irises. Blankness reflecting into blankness, void into void. You almost want to laugh. Seems appropriate.

There’s a moment here that passes. Her grip, impossibly, seems to tighten just for the barest instant, and then she releases you. The first unrestricted breath of air is sweeter than any you’ve taken before.

“Two weeks,” she repeats, already turning away. “I’ll hold you to that.”

**v.**

Argent’s eyes are like a cat’s in the darkness.

“Did it work?” she asks. She has a thick winter coat on, the hood pulled up to hide the distinctive starlike glimmer of her hair. She slinks about your soon-to-be-abandoned hideout like a robber in a neighbor’s home.

You surprise yourself with your laugh. It’s nothing like the bitter bark, the cynical snorts that you’ve trained yourself to give. You don’t think you’ve ever laughed this hard, this freely in your life.

Last night you could look at yourself in the mirror without wanting to put your fist through the glass. This morning you woke up smiling. 

Did it work?

Like a dream.

“It did,” you say, lighter than you thought possible from yourself. “The device is yours now. I’m done. I’m free.”

You start off towards the exit, but you don’t fully know what comes over you. The impulse. The urge, to look briefly back over your shoulder at Argent, standing in the slice of moonlight, profile illuminated in silver. To say, “Good luck, Ximena. I hope you get what you’re looking for.”

“Wait.” 

You don’t fully know why you stop, either.

“Take off your helmet,” she says. It’s not suspicion in her voice, not precisely. But you suppose you can understand. If it worked, why are you in your suit still? What are you hiding beneath the armor?

You undo the latches, let the hissing that accompanies the release of compressed air fill the silence.

She’s holding her breath.

So are you.

Why? You think you know why.

Your helmet feels light in your hands, hollow. There’s a stale gentle breeze that blows through the cracked windows and plays with your hair. It takes your eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness without the aid of your helmet’s built-in systems, but when your vision resettles, you realize that Argent is staring.

“You kept it,” she says.

Instinct has your hand reaching up to trace the line that runs from forehead to cheek. Over the weeks, it had faded until it was barely visible against your skin. Sometimes, even you yourself can barely spot it unless you concentrate very hard in the mirror.

“So I did,” you say, smiling. “I suppose this is our secret, now.”


End file.
